Rush of Blood
by Ista
Summary: A typical day? Steve Rogers saves it. But when Natasha is threatened, Steve makes a deal with a monster. Can the other Avengers save him in time? AU, set after the first Avengers but before Winter Soldier. Some light Steve/Nat and lots of hurt!Steve.
1. The Hot Dog Stand

**Rush of Blood**

 **Summary:** On a typical day, Steve Rogers saves it. But when Natasha is threatened, Steve makes a deal with a monster. Can the other Avengers save him in time? AU, set after the first _Avengers_ but before _Winter Soldier._ Some light Steve/Nat and lots of hurt!Steve.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to _Avengers_ or _Captain America…_ Darn.

 **Chapter 1: The Hot Dog Stand**

3:30 P.M. Patriotic Duties.

Captain Steve Rogers waves at the assembled press in front of the World War II Memorial in Washington DC and subtly checks his cell phone, a device he has yet to master. And, almost as if it can sense him, the mobile goes off. Panicking, Steve pushes almost every button on the phone before he manages to silence the shrill chimes, smiling apologetically at the speaker in front of him. The handful of politicians and generals sitting next to him shuffle restlessly, and Steve can tell they are just as eager to get this function over with as soon as possible.

Although the cell has been mercifully silenced, Rogers is dismayed when large text letters pop up on its screen, rapidly unraveling. Not wanting to further disrupt the proceedings, Steve presses the luminous screen into his palm and surveys the scene before the small stage, trying to appear like he's paying attention.

"Thank you all for being here today. James Buchanan Barnes was a man who paid the ultimate price to save his fellow comrades and to serve his country. It is only fitting that we preserve the story of his life and final sacrifice by dedicating a new monument to Sergeant Barnes at the World War II Memorial." With this, the speaker gestures to a statue covered with burgundy-colored cloth.

As the next guest speaker is introduced, Steve's attention stays on the unrevealed sculpture, and his mind is overrun with memories. He's used to it by now—constantly being reminded of his past and his friends… but it still jars him. Although he is honored to be asked to say a few words and attend the ceremony, Rogers shifts uncomfortably in his seat at the thought that all he has of Bucky are a few photographs and now a life-sized stone effigy.

The vibrating phone in his hand brings Captain America back to the present, and he surreptitiously scrolls through the message he had first ignored on the screen. JARVIS is keeping him informed of the attack three blocks from Avengers Headquarters, which began approximately a half hour ago. The perpetrators are a bunch of Doctor Doom drop-outs, hell bent on some of Stark's new gadgets, most likely. What had started out as a would-be stealth mission on their part changed into a defensive and scramble-for-your-life as they were caught by a group of Avengers before even making it to the tower.

As he reads the report JARVIS is sending him, Steve isn't particularly worried about the attack until one piece of information races across his screen:

 **BARTON INJURED**

It's just a blip—and Steve almost doesn't catch it in between the numerous lines of the report. But there it is.

Oblivious to the stares around him, Rogers immediately texts JARVIS back, knowing that his message will relay to the others on the team.

 **I'm on my way.**

Excusing himself quietly, Captain America slips behind the row of attendees and quietly jumps off the stage, landing softly on the grass below. Some members of the media take quick snapshots and a few attempt to follow him but are soon left behind as Steve sprints to his Harley-Davidson and races off.

Grey clouds begin building in the sky.

* * *

3:45 P.M. Damage Control.

The sky is growing darker, as if daring rain to fall.

Thor and Black Widow are on the scene, and Rogers breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes that the fighting is over, and there are no signs of casualties, civilian or otherwise. He nearly laughs out loud at the sight of Thor coercing Doom-heads into an armored S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle, his hammer crackling with electricity. Up and down the street, buildings are scorched with the remnants of the god's power. There is a small pile-up of crunched cars (to be expected) and multiple broken windows at street-level, but that seems to be the extent of the battle's destruction.

Then a piece of him pangs with worry at the thought of Hawkeye, and he approaches Natasha to check in. She is in the process of assessing other street damage, retrieving weapons, and checking for any stragglers.

"Status?" he asks.

When she turns around, the sparse sunlight reflects off her red hair, and Rogers is briefly dazzled by it. Does he glimpse a flash of a smile when she notices him? Or maybe it's a shadow…

"Tired of hanging out at the War Memorial, Steve?"

The super soldier loves playing this game. Romanoff teases him about his age, and he answers with a snappy comeback.

"Well, the Veteran's band had just started playing, and swing dancing was never my thing, so I left early."

Nat tips over the remains of a hotdog stand, blackened and charred almost beyond recognition. "You'll have to teach me someday…"

Rogers is ready to make a pun about how having eight legs might make dancing difficult, when he notices the movement out of the corner of his eye. In a split second, he sees the masked figure on the ground point a gun right at Black Widow.

Faster than the assassin can react, Captain America pushes her out of harm's way, blocking the bullet with his shield, only to have it repel back to its owner. Doom's emissary groans and sinks to the concrete, wounded in the side. Steve instantly grabs his gun and turns his attention to Romanoff.

"Nat!" he cries to the figure crumpled on the ground. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she moans, slowly sitting up and wincing. Rogers realizes that he's hovering over her, and he awkwardly steps back to give her some space, but Romanoff reaches out a hand instead. He quickly takes it and feels a slight rush with the contact, his pulse quickening, his blood pumping faster. Rogers stands frozen, locking into her beautiful green eyes, and he desperately hopes that she isn't aware of his sudden physical change at the contact.

Instead, she smiles. "Thanks."

Steve coughs. "Y-you're welcome.

And he lets go of her hand.

Natasha brushes herself off. "When can I pay you back?"

"Next time someone is trying to kill me," says Steve.

"So, like, tomorrow?"

Rogers turns to the wounded henchman and picks him up unceremoniously, half dragging him toward Thor as Natasha follows.

"Barton," he says, almost forgetting. "What happened?"

"Iron Man lifted Clint off a roof to take out a small enemy group. But when Stark was about to set him down, there was a sudden attack from the air. Tony was thrown off balance and dropped Clint. Hawkeye landed in the middle of enemy fire." Her voice is emotionless, but Steve can tell that Romanoff is worried. She's close to Barton—best friends.

"Is he okay?" he asks.

"Stark practically flambéed all of them after that, and he took Barton to the tower immediately. Tony was really freaked out, but I think Clint will be all right."

"Mind if I go see him?" the Captain says, tossing the prisoner over to Thor.

Nat shakes her head. "Don't see why not. I'll be more careful next time I'm sorting through the wreckage." Then she winks at him and walks away.

Rogers nods at Thor and is about to depart when he feels a strong hand on his back.

"Friend Rogers," says Thor. "I was wondering if I might ask you a favor."

Steve feels his eyebrows rise expectantly. This is a rare request—Thor never asks for help. "Sure."

The god of thunder is about to speak but then averts his eyes. Steve steps closer. This _is_ strange behavior from the Asgardian.

"I require decent Midgardian clothes for a formal banquet with my lady, Ms. Jane Foster, and I was hoping you… you might help me choose something suitable."

Cap almost cracks up. It isn't every day that you are asked to go clothes shopping with an Asgardian. "I'd be honored, Thor. When?"

Thor shrugs as if he hasn't really thought about it, then pushes the wounded prisoner into the S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle with so much force that it makes the car shake.

"Right now?"

Rogers beams at Thor's childlike enthusiasm. "Give me about two hours, all right?"

They agree on a shopping center, and Steve jogs to his motorcycle, shaking his head at his rather unusual date for that night.

* * *

4:30 P.M. Welcome Guests.

The tower shines like a silver beacon, its giant blue A beginning to glow blue as the sun goes down. The clouds have continued to gather ominously, and it's almost dark outside despite normally getting dark around 6:00 PM this time of year.

Steve Rogers draws the collar up on his brown leather jacket to protect him from the brisk chill of the late afternoon. As he approaches headquarters, he notices two figures standing by the doors to the main entrance, peering inside.

"May I help you?" he asks as he approaches them, and they turn around abruptly.

Rogers is instantly taken with their appearances. Both the man and the woman are immaculately dressed in black business suits. The man is about four inches taller than he is, with short dark hair and a thin, yet solid, build. His face behind the dark sunglasses he wears is strong and handsome. The woman also wears sunglasses, and Steve thinks this is rather odd until he realizes that Tony Stark wears shades of various colors day and night, and that it's a fashion statement for some in the 21st century.

"Yes, thank you," says the woman in an accent that Rogers recognizes, but cannot name. She tilts her sunglasses down and for the first time, he is looking into her striking blue eyes, contrasting with her almost-white shoulder-length hair.

Captain America pauses, staring into those eyes, and he is (for a brief moment) completely lost in them. As he stares, there is only the two of them, standing together in an empty city.

Then she blinks and pushes the lenses back. Steve draws a hand across his forehead, dazed.

"We were supposed to meet Mr. Tony Stark here at 4:00, but no one is here, and we cannot get in." The blonde woman smiles apologetically. Rogers tries to ignore his initial reaction to this smile, but all he can think of is—

 _Beautifulsoftlovely._

He clears his throat, trying to focus. What's wrong with him? It's been a busy day, but _seriously._ _Get it together, Rogers._

"What is—uh—your business with Mr. Stark?"

The man smiles an identical grin as the woman, and he speaks in the same accent. "Please. Very sorry, sir. We are new hires, and we were to meet with Mr. Stark to get our assignment."

Steve looks inside and remembers why he's there in the first place—to check in with Iron Man and see how Hawkeye is doing.

"Mr. Stark is busy right now, but I'll show you to the CEO of his company, Ms. Potts."

It isn't the first time Tony has left some recent hires, reporters, four star generals, or an entire alien envoy on the front steps.

Rogers uses his card key to enter the building. He isn't relishing escorting the newbies all the way to Pepper's office, sixty floors up. Luckily, she greets them in the lobby. She's wearing a sleek grey business suit, but there are visible creases under her eyes that connote tiredness.

Relieved, Steve is about to introduce the pair to Pepper, but he realizes that he doesn't even know their names.

"This is Ms. Potts," he says, "and this is—"

"Mr. Vlad Wallachia," says the tall man warmly, and stretches out his hand.

"And Mrs. Domini Wallachia," the woman says, offering her hand as well.

 _So. They're married._

"Lovely to meet you," says Pepper, never missing a beat, but Rogers hears the strain in her voice.

"Mr. Stark recently hired us," says Mr. Wallachia.

"Oh, did he?" Potts says dryly. "I wasn't aware."

The woman repeats, "We were supposed to meet with him—"

"Yes, well, I think that will have to wait until tomorrow, unfortunately. But I can take you to my office and discuss your job."

Pepper indicates a hallway with an elevator at the end, and then sighs, her eyes lingering at the double doors of the entrance, where she had originally headed.

As the two begin walking, Steve steps closer to Potts. "Sorry about that. I wasn't sure what to tell them."

"No, it's fine," says Pepper, and she sighs again. "It's just…Tony left and—"

"He's not with Barton?" Steve says, somewhat shocked.

"No, Tony was really upset and he…" She trails off, assuming that Rogers knows the rest of the sentence.

Steve has only known Stark for a short time, but he knows exactly what Tony has gone off to do. "Don't worry, Pepper. I'll find him, and I'll make sure he gets home safe."

Potts takes a deep breath and gives him a quick hug. "Thanks, Steve. You're always swooping in and saving the day."

"That's what I do best," he says, chuckling. "Just minus the cape."

Steve watches the trio as they walk away. Just before getting on the elevator, Mrs. Wallachia turns on a high heel and looks back at him. Immediately, he is alone with her again, his eyes connecting with sapphire depths. Then she's gone.

* * *

4:45 P.M. Patient Visit.

Rogers finds Barton with Bruce Banner in a rather spacious science lab. Cap can almost picture the scene exactly as it happened—Tony rushing in with Clint in his arms, interrupting Banner's research. Bruce calmly grabbing his medkit while Stark wildly clears a metal table.

Steve notices the papers in a flurry on the floor, the various tech equipment scattered along with it. Although it was deposited haphazardly, the gadgets appear more or less in one piece.

He hopes he can say the same about Barton.

Banner is working on the former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent as he enters, and he smiles thinly.

"He'll be just fine," the doctor says to Cap, so he doesn't have to ask.

Rogers breathes a sigh of relief as he approaches the table, leaning quietly over Banner's patient. Barton lies unconscious, a bandage on the right side of his head. His armor and bulletproof vest have been removed. Aside from the ugly gash along his left leg that Bruce is currently treating, Hawkeye looks okay.

"I came as soon as I heard what happened," says Steve, bowing his head gravely. "I should have been there."

"Hey," Bruce counters sharply. "Don't go all 'Tony' on me. It's not your fault; it was an accident. He didn't get hit—it was the head injury from the fall that knocked him out."

"It was a hot dog stand," comes a moan from Clint, and Banner chuckles.

"Seems to be causing a lot of people problems today," says Steve, and he leans over Barton. "How do you feel, soldier?"

Hawkeye blinks a few times. "Headache. Leg hurts."

Banner stops working briefly and studies Hawkeye. "Are you experiencing any dizziness? Blurred vision?"

Barton takes a deep breath, checking himself. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Feel like passing out?"

"No."

"Too bad, 'cause I'm about to put at least thirty stitches in your leg."

Clint groans, and Steve decides to distract him by asking about the attack.

"Routine offensive. Stark gave the orders. I was on a roof to get better shots at targets… but it was really weird."

"Why?" Rogers asks.

Barton grimaces with the pain as Bruce begins sewing up his leg. "I dunno. Something felt _off._ Like it was a set-up. Maybe it was. That aircraft came out of nowhere—knocked me and Iron Man out of the sky. That's when he lost his grip on me. We didn't even know Doom's followers _had_ an aircraft. Their modes of transportation were white vans. And it appeared so suddenly—like it had been cloaked, or something."

Steve is intrigued. "How was it a set-up? What were they hoping to achieve besides breaking into the tower?"

Clint thinks about it for a moment. "They couldn't have been after me. Maybe they wanted Stark. But the whole thing was suspicious. I mean, who in their right mind would try to _break_ into headquarters? It's got the best security system on the planet. And you use white vans as main modes of transport on this 'super secret' stealth mission? Either Doctor Doom's been smoking something, or we were set up."

Rogers ponders Barton's comments and the true motivations of the attack. Perhaps they were after Iron Man, like Clint suggested. And then he remembers the worry in Pepper's voice, and he knows his night is far from over.

"Tony blames himself for what happened," Steve says.

"What?!" Hawkeye cries. "That's just great."

"Speaking of our favorite billionaire genius etcetera," Rogers continues, "have you seen him, Bruce?"

"I tried to persuade him to stay until you got here," says Banner, "but he left in a not-so-subtle self-loathing rage."

Cap can tell that the doctor is concerned too. "Don't worry. That's my next step."

Then Barton stifles a cry as Banner pauses to pick out a piece of offending metal from his leg, and Rogers takes his hand, holding it firmly.

"Eyes on me," he says firmly, and Hawkeye follows his command, teeth grinding together.

"Sorry," mutters Bruce. "Some of this stuff got buried deep."

Steve holds onto Clint for another agonizing five minutes before it's finally over.

Barton sighs, and his head sinks back on the metal table. "Thank God. I think I'm gonna sleep now, if that's all right with you two. Can I get a pillow for the effort, doc?"

Bruce grins. "I thought you might ask for a popsicle. Sure thing." Then he turns to Rogers. "Let me know if you need back up. I know how Tony can get sometimes."

Steve shakes his head. "No, you stay with Clint. I'll be back soon. Besides, how bad could Tony get that we'd need the Hulk?"

Banner just purses his lips together and tilts his head.

"All right," says Rogers. "Point taken. You never know with Stark."

He's about to leave when Barton stops him.

"Hey, Cap. Thanks."

Rogers winks at him and quickly walks away.

 **TBC**

 **A/N:**

Heyyyyy everyone. Where shall I begin?

So this is my second Avengers fic ever. Seeing _Civil War_ inspired me to randomly post this partially-written story I've had saved on my computer since… _Winter Soldier_ came out. It's not finished yet, but I hope to keep posting on a fairly regular basis if there's interest in reading it. In other words, I'm taking a ginormous leap to post more of my work rather than just filing it away and never reading it again or working on it.

This story is being continued due to my love of gothic literature combined with the _Avengers_ characters. I just can't get enough of Cap, Tony—all of them, and I have a fierce need for them to be all reunited and happy and supportive of each other again. Also, as much as I like Sharon Carter, I think Steve and Nat have way too much chemistry to let that ship sail.

Please let me know what you think! I love receiving honest feedback. I love receiving hugs and high fives too. In fact, I'm happy to receive just about anything. Within reason. Did I mention I enjoy sending descriptions of virtual cupcakes to my reviewers as thank yous? They are word-a-licious and calorie-free!

~Ista


	2. Burritos and Bonding

**Rush of Blood**

 **Chapter 2: Burritos and Bonding**

5:30 P.M. Chauffeur Service.

After stashing his shield back in his room, Steve borrows one of Tony's sports cars, the blue Tesla Roadster. He doesn't think Iron Man will mind. Rogers has come to fetch Stark, after all. In a sense, to rescue him. To save the billionaire from himself.

After knowing Stark for nearly a year, Steve's aware of all the genius's regular haunts. And being the only member of the Avengers not affected by alcohol, Rogers has spent many a not-so-merry evening playing the designated driver.

It's a role that was fun, at first.

The excess of a typical Tony Stark party includes everything from celebrity appearances to the occasional striptease. The elaborate decorations alone are worth attending the parties; Steve has seen his fair share of luminarias. Unfortunately, Captain America would never have gone in the first place were it not to drive a team member home, or to watch (Pepper uses the word _babysit_ ) Iron Man.

 _Excess_ took a whole new level with Stark.

And it wasn't just the debauchery, predictable fistfights, and drinking into semi-conscious stupors. It was the moment (and _the moment_ accompanied every party) in which Tony Stark would stop turning against everyone _else_ and begin turning against _himself_.

Cap, standing in the doorway of the bar, and eyeing Stark at the counter, can already tell that _the moment_ has been reached.

 _Oh, shoot._

The establishment Rogers enters is, nicely put, a pathetic little dive. The sour stench of vomit and cloyingly sweet perfume of hard liquor permeates the area. Low yellow lights flicker upon passed-out patrons; the other customers unlucky enough to be conscious stare off into oblivion, echoing Stark's current posture.

 _Why does Tony come here so often?_

Steve understands, to a point, what drives the billionaire here, but he still can't condone his actions. While Captain America may be the poster child of the Avengers, Iron Man is their leader. And a leader can't afford to run off at the first feelings of guilt.

 _Well, at least he wasn't in the mood to try something new, or I could have been up all night searching for him._

Steve remembers his promise to Thor about helping him pick an outfit. He checks his watch and takes a deep breath. Usually these episodes with Tony can last a while, but maybe tonight will be different…

Rogers doubts it.

The dim lighting of the tavern is practically non-existent in some of its corners, forcing Steve to be cautious as he walks the length of the bar. He remembers what Hawkeye said about the attack—someone could be after their beloved genius, billionaire, etcetera tonight.

Rogers approaches the small figure in the back, crouched over his drink, and the mustachioed bartender eyes him suspiciously, probably afraid that he's come to take away his best paying customer.

And he's totally right.

It's clear that Stark has had at least five drinks by the time Rogers gets close enough to him. He can typically gauge the number of shots consumed through physical bearing and facial expression. _At least he's not curled up in a ball on the floor,_ thinks Cap.

Step 1: Listen to Tony's Problem(s)

"Hey," Steve says lightly, sliding next to Iron Man at the counter. He can feel the first faint pangs of hunger clawing at his stomach, and he realizes that it's been about twelve hours since he has last eaten. He eyes the cocktail peanuts in a glass dish in front of him, but he doesn't touch them. A dead cockroach is curled up alongside the nuts in the same dish.

Tony doesn't even look up. His left cheek is scrunched into a balled fist. The other hand aimlessly twirls a tumbler of whiskey by the rim.

Steve swallows. This isn't a good sign. If Stark has already moved past the stage where he can even make a joke, or smile when he sees a colleague, it's definitely not good.

"I-um-heard what happened earlier and showed up after you left. Pretty crazy, huh?"

Nothing. Stark doesn't even swat away a small fly that lands on his arm.

"All the emissaries have been rounded up. S.H.I.E.L.D. will interrogate them, and we'll get some clearer answers soon."

Tony takes another sip of his drink, staring into space. Rogers sighs and decides to get right to the point.

"Barton's gonna be fine. I just saw Bruce, and I spoke with them at the tower."

There's a beat. Stark blinks.

"I almost killed him."

Cap nearly smiles but catches himself. If he can get Tony to talk some more, they'll be on their way to Step 2.

"What? What do you mean, Tony?"

"It was my fault, all right? I decided to bring Hawkeye down from his vantage point. I dropped him. I saw him fall and…"

"Hey," says Steve, putting a hand on Stark's shoulder. "Don't say that. It could have happened to anyone, Tony. It's not your fault. Clint's okay."

Stark shakes his head and downs his drink, tossing it back and slamming the glass on the counter.

"They need you at headquarters," says Rogers gently. " _We_ need you, Tony."

"You need me like you need an undertaker," says Tony. "How can I lead them now? They'll never trust me again."

Rogers has heard enough and knows that it's time for…

Step 2: Sympathize With Tony

Steve is especially fantastic at this section because it involves a great old-fashioned pep talk that begins with a story from his own life (usually a combat mission during World War II) and capitulates with a glorious tie-in to Stark's current problem. The point of Step 2 isn't really the story of the empathy Rogers imparts—it's more about breaking the billionaire down and wearing him out from the sheer _length_ of the tale so that he's easier to wrangle back into the car.

Rogers is halfway through an epic tale where Bucky was trapped by the evil Red Skull, and Captain America was about to rescue him, when—

"I can't go back, Steve."

Cap stops, clear shock on his face from the fact that Stark _interrupted_ him in the _middle_ of the story. Stark has _never_ interrupted him before.

"I can't be an Avenger. I'm going to resign."

Rogers' mind is whirling. He's still stuck on the concept that Tony has thrown a wrench into Step 2—tried and tested Step 2!

It's inconceivable.

Steve clears his throat and continues the tale again, hoping that Stark will forget what he said and let him finish. But Iron Man pours himself another drink, and a bit of his usual snark is present for what comes out of his mouth next:

"Your little war stories are cute, Steve, but I'm not joking. I'm a liability to the team, and I have nothing to offer you anymore. Go away."

Captain America feels his lips part in shock, trying to gasp without any breath.

"Oh, c'mon," Cap says, teasing. "You don't mean that."

"Did being frozen for the better part of a century damage your hearing?" Tony barks. " _Yes_ , I _do_."

Steve can't believe that Step 2 is now a complete disaster. And without Step 2, there can be no Step 3 (Getting Tony Quietly to the Car) or Step 4 (Tucking Tony into Bed).

The super soldier desperately tries a different approach. He puts his hand on Stark's shoulder. "Why don't we go outside for some fresh air and talk about this—"

But Stark pushes him away, almost knocking Rogers to the floor. "Get your hands off me, Yankee Doodle!"

The various non-physical stresses of the day are beginning to catch up with Rogers, and he realizes all of a sudden…

To _hell_ with the steps. After all, Stark isn't wearing any iron tonight.

Steve pulls Tony out of his seat with such force that all of the glasses in the bar rattle and clink together. Clenched firmly in his grasp, there is a hint of fear behind the billionaire's rose-tinted shades.

"We're going outside," says Rogers, anger simmering just beneath the surface of his eyes. " _NOW."_

Steve watches Tony closely as the playboy staggers in front of him, trying to keep a smidgeon of dignity about his person, because he's suddenly become the center of attention in the bar. Some of the other inhabitants stir groggily and stare blankly at the pair as they exit.

"Jus' a simple misunderstanding," Stark mutters semi-coherently to the other regulars on his way out. "He was frozen in ice. Could make anyone cranky."

As soon as they're outside, however, Tony shoves Rogers away. "Leave me alone, Cap. I don't need to be rescued by you, nor _manhandled_."

Steve can't really believe that Tony is acting this way, but he easily pushes the other man against the brick wall of the bar. Outside, the cold air is nipping at his cheeks.

"Listen, Stark. I've had enough of your self-serving self-loathing to last me _another_ century in the ice. Every person on the Avengers' side is worried about you, including Pepper. I've had a long day of tying up loose ends, and you're the only person preventing me from helping an Asgardian god who is experiencing a fashion crisis. And _his_ calamity is preventing me from enjoying a nice cup of chamomile tea and a good book. So cut out the woe-is-me hooey and…Get. In. The. CAR."

Tony's eyes widen and roll towards the Roadster parked nearby. Then, slowly, a thin smile overcomes his bearded face.

"Well, since you put it so _nicely_ …"

And, with as much dignity as he can muster, Stark slowly weaves to the car and quietly gets inside.

Rogers takes a deep calming breath, and when he exhales, it frosts in the air before him like a ghost. Then he gets in the driver's seat.

The ride back to headquarters is painfully silent. Stark is focused on the road ahead, unblinking and unmoving.

Finally, Steve can't take it anymore and softens. "Tony, we care about you too much to let you lose yourself and to keep letting you do this."

A few minutes pass, then: "I know."

Rogers parks the Tesla in the garage and takes Stark's hand to help him to the elevator. He swipes his card key, and they go up in silence. By this point, Tony is beginning to fade. Steve observes this and places a supportive arm around him, as he's done countless times before. As much as he feigned annoyance at Stark's escapade eating up his time, there is nothing Rogers would rather do more at this minute than help his teammate. And Tony can tell.

Once Steve gets him into his room and helps him take his shoes off, Stark asks him to continue the story he had started earlier. Rogers launches into it again with zest, only to stop at about the same place as before when Tony's eyes begin to close.

"Maybe you can tell it later," mumbles Stark drowsily.

"I will," says Rogers.

Before Captain America leaves, Tony whispers, "Thank you, Spangles."

A smile flickers across Steve's face. "You're welcome, Tin Man."

Jarvis shuts the lights off automatically, and Cap leaves for his final venture of the evening. He'll take the Roadster again; Tony won't mind.

* * *

6:30 P.M. Fashion Consultant.

The nearest mall is humming with activity on a Monday evening. Rogers spots him from half a mile away, like an orange in a barrel full of apples. Thor has a way of standing out amongst the mere mortals.

The Asgardian gets up from a bench that barely contains him when he notices Steve, towering above the rest of the mall population. Thor is wearing faded jeans that are a couple sizes too big and a red flannel jacket that screams "lumberjack." Rogers bites his cheek and tries to remember that he's also dressed in a brown leather jacket, circa 1940.

"Friend Rogers," intones Thor and grasps his hand.

Steve winces at the grip of the handshake. "Thor. How are you doing?"

"I have been waiting with immense anticipation of this moment, Captain."

Rogers can't help but smile amiably. "I'm looking forward to this as well, Thor. And I'm flattered that you asked me. I should have told you earlier not to expect great fashion advice from a guy who's been frozen for the past seventy years, but c'mon…"

They walk past a pretzel booth, and Steve's stomach reminds him that he hasn't eaten since this morning. He ignores its growls again and proceeds to the nearest clothes chain.

The experience itself turns out to be much more fun than Rogers originally imagined, and he quickly forgets his hunger amidst the selection of ties, undershirts, suit jackets, dress pants, and shoes. The store assistant is a sweet young woman who flirts shamelessly with Thor and uses every excuse to accidentally brush her fingers over his muscles, or touch his chest during a measurement. Steve finds this extremely funny and revels in his friend's predicament as Thor awkwardly removes himself from the woman multiple times.

They finally settle on a navy blue number that has to be custom-ordered due to Thor's height and build, but they also select a few more casual outfits that the god of thunder purchases on the spot. The pair leave laughing as Rogers teases him about the assistant.

"Be silent!" Thor booms, obviously embarrassed.

Steve contains his laughter as they ride the escalator to the first level, but the persistent gurgles of his stomach attract the Asgardian's attention.

"When was the last time you have eaten, friend?"

Rogers stifles a yawn, checking his phone. "Around six o'clock?"

Thor raises his eyebrows dubiously.

"In the morning…" Steve finishes.

At that, Rogers protests as Thor promptly steers him toward the food court. They end up getting giant burritos with extra guacamole and chowing down on them at a corner table. For the first time that day, Rogers feels at peace, and he's grateful to the other man sitting across from him.

"So, what's the occasion, Thor? Why get the nice clothes now? Haven't you been living on Earth for quite a while?" These questions have been on Steve's mind the entire evening.

Thor is almost done with his burrito (it only took him three bites), and he sets the remnants down thoughtfully.

The god's sudden silence makes Rogers backtrack. "I mean—you don't have to answer me… Not a big deal…"

"I am going to ask for Miss Jane Foster's hand in marriage," says Thor quietly. "I am going to propose to her."

Steve gapes and swallows hard before bursting into a smile and pounding the god on the back. "Congratulations!"

Thor awakens from his reverie. "I am content with the decision."

"When are you going to pop the question?"

"In four days' time."

Rogers finishes his food and leans back in his chair happily. Drowsiness begins to steal over him, and he is about to ask Thor if he would like to return to the tower, but the god is silent again.

"What's wrong?"

Thor bows his head, an unusual gesture for the Asgardian. "I would have liked to share this moment with my brother, Loki, if he were alive today."

Steve is at once serious, and he leans forward. This is the first time he has heard the god of thunder mention his stepbrother since the battle in Manhattan and the tumultuous events that followed afterwards on Asgard, during which Thor lost not only his mother, but his only sibling as well. Rogers feels honored to have Thor confide in him, but he isn't confident about how to ease his pain.

"I understand," Steve says. "I feel the same way about Bucky. He was like a brother to me, you know. And I wish he could be alive today, be part of our team. We could have shared so much more…"

A flood of memories rush through him, and Captain America isn't aware of his surroundings until he feels a hand on his arm. He stirs and looks up at Thor. The Asgardian is softly beaming.

"I am glad that you are here, Captain," he says.

They don't speak much as they walk to the Roadster, and Rogers drives them back to headquarters. Thor bids Rogers a goodnight, and Steve heads back to his apartment in the tower. He plans to read a bit before going to bed, but he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. His last thoughts are how thankful he is to be an Avenger and how he couldn't have dreamt for a better end to a stressful Monday.

Little does he know that this day is bliss compared to what lies in store...

TBC


	3. The Girl With the Ice Cream Cone

**Rush of Blood**

 **Chapter 3: The Girl With the Ice Cream Cone**

 **Warning:** Some mild gore in this one.

6:00 A.M. Morning Routines.

The run of bad luck Steve Rogers will experience begins the following morning after a brisk race downtown. The breakfast nook is sadly empty as he stops by to snag a bowl of cereal.

While Steve munches on granola, he wanders to the nearest window where the sky is darkening, looming clouds covering the streets outside with a fine mist. Rogers is a bit disappointed at the weather—watching the sun rise is one of his favorite morning routines.

However, the day gets a few notches worse when he goes back to his room to shower and change, and reaches underneath his bed to find…

…no shield.

Steve pauses and ducks his head under the mattress frame to locate the spot where he typically stashes the vibranium disc, but his hand meets air, and there is nothing.

 _O…kay._

There are only three places where Captain America stores his shield: under his bed, in his closet, or in the (usually) safe hands of Tony Stark when the billionaire needs to test it, or wants to perfect its design.

After checking in the closet and discovering it (sadly) shieldless, Rogers finds himself running a hand through his hair and looking toward the ceiling.

Tony has never taken his shield without asking before. However, being without his trusty piece of vibranium has sparked a minor burst of anxiety, and Steve pulls out his seldom-used smartphone. He taps the screen clumsily, nearly dialing Agent Coulson (that would have been awkward) before he reaches Stark's number and tries it.

He lets the phone ring for a few agonizing moments until it goes to voicemail:

"You know who this is. Leave a message worthy of my greatness."

Rogers cancels the call with a tap and realizes he is trying the wrong method to reach the billionaire.

"Jarvis?" he says hesitantly, still uncomfortable with the feeling that he's talking to himself every time he summons the computer program.

"Yes, Captain Rogers?" pipes the voice, with his crisp British accent.

"Can you contact Tony for me? It's an emergency."

"I'll try my best, sir," says JARVIS.

Cap hops around to the other side of his bed and swivels the communication screen so that it faces him. In three minutes it crackles, and an image of a very bedraggled billionaire appears.

"Stars and Stripes. How are you this fine morning?"

Steve lets out a deep sigh. So far, this is going better than he expected. It's an unspoken Avengers rule that no one wakes Stark up before noon, unless they don't mind losing digits.

"Well, I'm not too great, actually…"

Stark blinks. "Okay, let me get my suit and—"

"No," Cap interjects. "That's not necessary."

"Okay," says the billionaire evenly enough, but Rogers can tell that he's losing patience. "Is Red Skull prank-calling you again?"

"No."

"Did Coulson give you more collector's cards to sign?"

"Nope."

"Alien invasion?"

"Still no."

"Oh, God," Tony groans. "Please don't tell me that you forgot how to turn on your laptop again."

"Negative," Rogers says, knowing that he's going to have to spill it soon.

Stark pauses, rubbing his eyes. "All right, Spangles. I'm sure this is important, but, if you can recall, I was doing some serious drinking last night, so you'd better tell me what's going on, or I'm hanging up so I can get some more beauty sleep…"

Rogers winces at the reminder—he had forgotten about his chauffeur duties the previous night. He should never have contacted Stark.

"Or I might vomit on my screen, which would also show on _your_ screen…"

"It's my shield," says Steve at last.

"Yeees?" Tony drawls, his eyes squinting malevolently.

"It's gone."

"You _lost_ your shield?"

"I didn't _lose_ it. It's just gone."

Stark picks at the bags under his eyes as if they are grey blobs of Play-Doh. "Cap, I thought you slept with that thing like a little kid cuddles a teddy bear. How could it be gone?"

Rogers clears his throat, not willing to confess that he _does_ sleep with his shield on occasion, but that's beside the point.

"I don't know. I thought maybe you had taken it to run some tests and forgot to tell me."

"Yeah, sometimes I like to break into your room in the middle of the night, watch you sleep, and steal your stuff," deadpans Stark, "but I wasn't feeling it last night."

Steve rolls his eyes, beginning to grow impatient. " _Tony."_

"Jarvis, have there been any unauthorized visitors to Cap's quarters in the past 24 hours?"

A brief pause, then: "No, sir."

Stark ruffles his hair absentmindedly. "We'll find it, Steve. I'm sure it's just Hawkeye playing another of his practical jokes, or something. Remember that one time in Morocco?"

Steve shakes his head, confused.

"Oh," says Tony. "Never mind then. 'Night 'night."

And the screen goes blank. Rogers is about to contact Pepper Potts to see if she knows anything about his safeguard, in case Tony forgot, when the S.H.I.E.L.D. symbol flashes before him.

It's Nick Fury, and his mouth is fixed in a straight line.

"Sir," says Steve, unconsciously sitting straighter on his bed. "How can I help you?"

"I've got news about Doom's henchmen," says Fury briskly. The director appears to be driving because Rogers can see the streets of New York zooming by in the background.

"What did you find out?"

"The emissaries were paid by a third party to engage the Avengers and _fake_ an attempt at breaking into headquarters. But it was never their intent."

"Do we know who this third party is?"

"Not yet. The Doomheads don't even know for sure, but they were paid out of a bank account in Romania."

Something about this recent development rings a bell—brings up a memory from Steve's past, but it's not clear.

"Was the third party on board the airship?"

"Affirmative."

"And they were after Stark?"

Nick sighs. "We're not sure yet, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is currently trying to track its emissions to find its location and crack its cloaking codes."

"Do you need assistance?" Steve asks.

Fury shakes his head. "No. I'll keep you informed and let you know as soon as we find anything."

"Very good, sir," says Cap, and he's ready to ask Fury about his shield when he realizes it might not be a great idea at the moment.

"What is it?"

"N-nothing, sir. Rogers out."

Nick Fury's slightly puzzled face flickers away with the press of a button, and Steve stifles an embarrassed grimace, exiting his room and heading several floors down to speak with the CEO of Stark Enterprises in person. He wants to get out of his room anyway. The dark skies are threatening rain and add to his already depressed mood. And is it just him, or is his room much colder than usual?

Steve is almost in Pepper's offices when he brushes shoulders with someone, causing a loose paper she is carrying to fall lightly to the floor.

"Oops," she says through a puff of air.

Without identifying the office assistant, Rogers swiftly picks up the paper and hands it out. "My apologies…Mrs. Wallachia!"

Her eyes glimmer as she reaches out to take the paper from him, and she smiles brightly. For a brief moment, their hands touch, and Steve feels a buzz as strong as an electrical current shoot through his body. As before, he is transfixed.

"Thank you, Captain," she says, as sweet as saccharine, but he barely hears the words. Rogers is frozen to the spot, sinking deeper into the black pupils of her eyes, ringed with cobalt. The darkness within them is growing, and although this frightens part of him, he is too mesmerized to heed his instincts.

"Are you going to see Miss Potts? She currently has no appointments." The tip of her tongue flicks off her teeth with the accented words.

"Yes, I…" He swallows—his throat is strangely dry. Steve fumbles with the words and says them as if hearing them spoken by someone else via radio transmission. "I lost my shield… and I thought Pepper…I mean, Miss Potts…m-might know where it is."

Her eyes are glittering like freshly painted Easter eggs—shells hiding something just beneath their thin surfaces. Rogers wants to witness their revelation—to crack the glaze and plunge into their shadows—

"Steve! Steve, are you there?"

Rogers blinks, and he realizes that his phone is simultaneously vibrating and talking to him at the same time. He places a hand reflexively on his temple, his mind fuzzy.

"Hope you find it," says Domini Wallachia, and she is walking down the hallway, like a mirage that shimmers in the distance before disappearing.

Something drops in Steve's stomach, and it churns as he looks at the photo popping up on his cell phone screen—it's a candid picture of Natasha Romanoff with an ice cream cone—a rare photo taken on a sunny summer day that seems years in the past, almost pre-ice for all of its innocence. Her head is leaning back with laughter, and her eyes are closed, black eyelashes freeze-framed. He tries to remember what made her happy on that carefree day—maybe something Tony had said.

And all at once, Rogers feels incredibly guilty to look at her picture and be reminded of his unexpressed feelings for the super spy—feelings that had been instantly eradicated in the presence of Mrs. Wallachia. Steve's cheeks burn with a shame he is grateful no one can see.

"Cap, pick up!"

Her urgent tone forces him to put to cell to his ear.

"Rogers here."

"Are you suited up?"

"Yes?" _Minus the shield_ , he thinks with a wince.

"Good. We're needed at a robbery in progress."

Steve is somewhat confused with this information. "Is the Manhattan PD unavailable?"

"The getaway vehicle has traces of contact with the cloaked airship."

"On my way."

"I'll meet you there."

Rogers is already sprinting to the nearest elevator by the time Natasha cancels the call. Her joyful face disappears, along with the ice cream cone.

* * *

9:30 A.M. Pursuit.

Captain America rides his bike to the address Black Widow texted him, but he knows the area well. It's the Gideon Bank, and the two of them arrive just in time.

Most civilians have cleared the area, and Nat barely dismounts her own motorcycle before firing shots at the armed guards streaming out of the building, black briefcases in tow. Steve follows suit and parks his bike next to Romanoff's while racing to the robbers at triple-speed. As he runs, he can feel the pleasant hum of adrenaline racing through his body, and he plunges into a state of hyper-awareness. He zeroes in on his targets—a group of no more than half a dozen men (judging on their builds) dressed in grey suits. Their faces are covered in matching grey bandannas and are obscured, almost blending in with the stormy grey sky above them.

The group is headed toward a white van—its lack of inconspicuousness either incredibly stupid or a touch of genius. Rogers hurtles himself at the thieves, yelling back at Natasha, several yards behind: "I've got them!"

He's half a second too late as the last assailant jumps into the back of the van, and the engine turns on. Rogers calmly kicks the windowless back door, denting it heavily, determined to get inside in less than a minute, whether the vehicle is moving or not.

Natasha stops cold in her tracks, years of training screaming at her that something is wrongwrongwrong. And it's not just the peculiarity of the white van or its shadowy inhabitants. Before she can help Steve, a well-dressed man with a tidy salt-and-pepper beard runs from the bank and down its stone steps. She goes to him, partially to prevent him from getting hurt in the scene, but also to hear the words she is afraid he'll say.

"They held us up," the bank manager says with a shaky voice, "but they didn't take anything. Their suitcases are empty."

As Natasha turns around to warn Rogers, the back door he is trying to break through bursts open, knocking him over. Although barely stunned, Cap is not prepared for the strong grey arms that emerge from the vehicle, grab him, and toss him into the dark mouth of the van, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Steve!" Nat screams in horror as the van speeds away, with Captain America inside it.

* * *

9:40 A.M. Captured.

Steve Rogers is desperately missing his shield.

The first thing he notices is how fragmented sound is, and how vivid, especially when one can't see; the back of the van is windowless as well as seatless. Thus, Captain America finds himself in complete darkness, and he's not alone.

He hears the whir of the engine as he's jostled from side to side, and he takes in the swift motions of the beings in masks as they race around him, like whispers.

Steve thinks of them as inhuman only because they do not move like ordinary men—their movements are faster than he can counter, darting in and out of the darkness so that when he finally grips one around the waist, the figure dissolves in his fingers.

They're like the air, like pure shadows.

Without a modicum of light, Captain America stumbles into bodies that lash out, shifting and striking, as if the dark doesn't bother them.

 _Maybe they have night vision goggles._

But their abilities are greater than that—what could explain the way they disappear as soon as his fist connects their bodies?

That nagging déjà vu flashes through Steve's mind again, just beneath the surface of his thoughts, but he can't tap into it, as if something—someone—is blocking him.

A harsh punch to his stomach sends him to his knees, and the van takes a wild turn to the left. Cap lurches forward drunkenly, whirling blindly around only to be sent back down again by a blow to his abdomen. The second blow brings white stars bursting into his vision, and he doesn't have time to react before a chain wraps around his chest.

The van veers haphazardly again, and Rogers hears the sound of gunfire. _Natasha!_ Her possible proximity gives him hope. Steve attempts to stand again when another chain wraps around his legs, and he stumbles to his side, moaning as his knees crack against the cold metal.

"Who are you?" he growls. "Whom do you work for?"

It's a long shot, but maybe he can buy Nat some time to get him out of there. The figures surround him. He's only aware of their presence because of the murmuring sound as their garments brush together.

Steve is lifted and unceremoniously dumped so that he's sitting upright, propped up against the left side of the van. Three more heavy chains are wrapped around him, the last one placed around his neck and held up so that it's getting more difficult to breathe. Both of his arms are held back, and Rogers tries to bust through the chains, but the metal is too strong. He doubts even if he had his vibranium defender he would be able to break the restraints.

As the vehicle jostles to and fro, one of the creatures—because _men_ are out of the question at this point—holds his right arm up. In one second, something slashes through his palm. Rogers grits his teeth, but he does not cry out.

Thrashing in his chains, Steve shouts, "What do you want from me?"

And, as if in response to his query, he feels the cool outline of a circle pressed into his injured palm, like a small cup. He can feel the blood running down his hand, and he cringes. After a few moments, the circle is removed.

 _Sample. They took a blood sample._

 _But why?_

It isn't necessarily a big secret that the super soldier has special blood, but why would thieves be after it? Correction, _alien_ thieves.

The chains around his neck are digging in tighter, and Rogers sees the inside of the van begin to brighten unnaturally. He's almost dizzy from jerking his head back and forth, trying to specifically locate the other beings close to him.

With a screech, the van comes to a halt, and his head slams back into the chains that hold him. It's maddening just sitting there, watching the shadows slowly dissolve away; the thieves are fleeing.

A small door, more like a window, to the front of the van opens wider, and he can barely see the windshield, cracked to the point of zero visibility. Steve thrashes around, trying to get free, to go after them, whoever they were. As he struggles, his right palm slides beneath him, slick with blood. He feels so helpless, his pulse racing.

Half a dozen figures in grey swiftly exit. The last one pauses, hissing almost inaudible words.

"Renfield—come with us!"

"No," comes a low response, even and calm. "My Master craves it, and I crave it too. I pay homage to the Dark One by staying with him."

"You're a fool!" spits the creature, its speech like pressurized air. "You will die!"

As the grey figure slips away, there is a soft chuckle. The passenger door opens wide now, light from the dim morning streaming through the vehicle. If Cap could touch his face, he would rub his eyes because they are watering. He is aware of someone moving from the driver's seat to the back until they are kneeling down beside him.

"There, there. I know how you feel. All this sunshine is harmful to the skin."

The voice is almost purring, speaking to him like he is a small child. "Would you like me to close the door, hmm? That would be better, hmm? Yes, it would."

"Wait," Steve says.

The blurriness subsides, and Captain America is staring at a man of medium size with short brown hair, wearing a brown business suit that would have been more fashionable in his youth than today. But besides the style of suit, Rogers is surprised to be staring into the face of a man who, in different circumstances, would appear painfully ordinary.

Except for his eyes.

The whites of his them are a bright red and the pupil is severely dilated, almost entirely hiding the light brown of his irises. The skin around them is blotchy, a purple color, which suggests lack of sleep.

 _And here I was thinking this guy might help me get out of here._

"Who are you?" Cap says evenly, testing him.

The other man smiles, baring stained yellow teeth, boldly going where only the Cheshire Cat has gone before.

"I am my Master's servant."

Rogers wishes he could get hold of some excess chain to defend himself, but his arms are tied firmly in place, and he cannot wrench them free.

"No, I meant your name. What did the others call you? Renfield?"

At this, the strange man gets down on all fours, chittering like some kind of rodent before sitting cross-legged, eye-to-eye with the captain.

He answers playfully, "Yes, that's correct. Technically. But old R.M. craved different things, like fishing and banking and tablets of aspirin…"

"And who were the others in the van with us?" Steve tries to interrupt, but it doesn't work.

"Reading newspapers, watching golf, painting nudes, drinking coffee—"

"And what do you crave now?" Steve practically has to shout to cease Renfield's endless commentary.

In one chilling moment, the man opposite Cap is completely silent. Renfield closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, his face displays supreme ecstasy.

"Darkness, and only darkness."

Rogers stifles a shudder.

"And when I am thirsty…"

Before Cap can even flinch, Renfield picks up Steve's shackled right hand and opens his mouth, licking the blood from the wound in long laps. As if his blood is water and Renfield is a dying man. As if the thick red liquid is some kind of rare delicacy, a priceless wine.

Steve is too shocked to move. In fact, he's repulsed and mesmerized at the same time.

Just then the back door of the van bursts open with such force that it flies off its hinges, smashing into Renfield and sending him sprawling with its force. Cap looks outside, squinting in the dim light. Natasha stands at the ready, gun drawn and breathing heavily. In the fading sunshine of late morning, dark clouds at her back, red hair streaming in wavy wisps, she is beautiful. And Rogers has never been more happy to see her.

TBC

 **A/N:** I'm reeeaaalllly sorry that I didn't post this sooner. Things have been busy, and postings might be sporadic in the future. But thanks for bearing with me. And thanks for all the awesome reviews! They really make my day and inspire me to keep writing. Please continue to let me know what you think of this fic. I appreciate all feedback!

~Ista ^_^


	4. The Kiss

**Rush of Blood**

 **Chapter 4: The Kiss**

9:45 A.M. Rescued.

Cautiously, the trained assassin hops into the van, the heel of her boot tapping Renfield's leg, but he lies unmoving, the crushed back door of the vehicle pinning him. Once Natasha's satisfied that the driver isn't going anywhere, her attention immediately turns to—

"Steve! Are you okay?"

Instantly, she's fumbling with the chains, gently undoing the cords from where they've dug into his skin, leaving raw red marks.

Cap tries to speak, but the chain around his neck is squeezing too tightly. When she notices that he is in pain, Black Widow removes the metal collar, and when she's finished, she puts a supportive hand on his shoulder as he leans his head against the inside wall of the van.

"Thanks. That's better."

"See, it didn't take long for me to pay you back."

He looks up at her, one eye open, managing a small smile. His chest warms when Romanoff reciprocates the gesture.

Then the moment's over, and Black Widow's all business.

"What happened? Where did the others go?"

Rogers sighs. "They must have gotten into a different vehicle."

Nat shakes her head. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has been monitoring a wide radius of the bank for unidentified cars and other vehicles. There was nothing…"

Steve knows where this is going. "Except for traces of that cloaked ship, right?"

Black Widow nods gravely. "It vanished off our radar before S.H.I.E.L.D. had time to retaliate… Your kidnappers must have been 'beamed up' or something."

She begins to help him to his feet, but he waves her off and tells her what happened in the van.

"They took a sample of your blood?" she gasps, eyes wide.

"I could be wrong about that. It was pitch black, and I couldn't see anything, but I think that's what happened." Rogers shows Romanoff his hand, still bloody but healing quite rapidly now, as most of his wounds heal; the gash is already half its original size.

"An alien race," she muses. "Why would they want your blood unless they wanted to re-create the super soldier serum?"

Rogers stretches his leg muscles tenderly. "That isn't easy. Remember what happened to Banner?"

"Cautionary green monster tales aside," says Black Widow, "it's a possibility, right?"

"Some kind of weapon," Steve says, trying to forget his dance with the shadows earlier, beings he couldn't even physically grasp. "It's what _they_ always want."

Nat smirks. "I could say the same about Director Fury."

If Steve hadn't looked behind him just then, he wouldn't have seen Renfield slowly trying to escape, crawling through the rubble.

"Not so fast," he says casually, stopping the driver by the heels. Natasha steps beside the prostrate man, gun drawn.

Cap lifts the car door off Renfield and tosses it aside. He bends down to turn the man over, but Renfield does so on his own, jerking suddenly around, his hands raised.

"Let me go!" His body shakes. "I have to get back to the Master."

"You stayed behind," says Rogers. "Why?"

Renfield, despite his trembling, chuckles. "You should already know that."

Steve is starting to think that this man is simply crazy—a brainless goon who hasn't a clue.

"Are you the contact? Did _you_ hire Doom's emissaries?"

Renfield doesn't answer, but a slow smile has spread over his bloody lips, turning them upwards to twitch like a dead fish.

Romanoff exchanges a glance with Rogers. She's hesitant about this guy too. What had Banner once said about Loki? _You can_ smell _crazy on him._

Steve tries one more time. "Was it your aircraft that fired on Iron Man? Is he the one you're after?"

Renfield just shakes his head and beckons Rogers closer, as if to tell him a huge secret. Nat readies her gun, and Steve leans in until his left ear is practically touching those writhing lips.

The man whispers, "We're after _you_."

Then Renfield grabs Cap's injured hand and sinks his teeth into it.

Rogers cries out, reeling backwards to escape from the man's grasp, but Black Widow strikes immediately. Renfield goes down when the butt of her gun impacts with his skull.

Rogers rises to his feet slowly, cradling his wounded hand, a new fear welling up inside him.

After Romanoff makes sure the lunatic is down, she turns back to Captain America. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," replies Steve, but it's obviously a lie.

"What did he say to you?"

Rogers shrugs. "Nothing."

Natasha accepts his response with the grace of not stating that it is an outright fib. Instead, she tilts her head to one side. "Hey—where's your shield?"

* * *

9:30 P.M. Sacrifice.

He's sitting on his bed, and although he's trying to make the day all right by having a cup of chamomile tea and devouring pages of _One Flew Over a Cuckoo's Nest_ , nothing _feels_ right.

Steve Rogers abruptly stands up and goes to the window, looking out at the darkest night he can remember since waking up from the eternal ice. Although the city's haze usually blocks starlight from his home at headquarters, tonight he can't even discern the moon's glow through thick, brooding clouds. He takes a breath that comes out more like a gasp and steps back, as if the hopeless sight stifles him.

He walks backwards, jerking when his shins bump into his bed. In a second, he fumbles for his cell phone and is about to call Natasha, a roaring panic slowly consuming him when—

There is a knock at his door.

Steve hesitates and pockets his phone, walking cautiously to the door.

When he opens it, he is astonished (but not really surprised) to see Domini Wallachia.

And she's holding something in front of her, something circular and shiny, with red and blue concentric circles.

It's his shield.

"Look what I found," she says, like a schoolgirl who ran off to bring back something obscene and show her friends.

Rogers has to swallow to find spit to talk.

"Thanks," he finally manages, and takes the vibranium accessory from her, holding it close to himself and breathing a sigh of relief before sliding it under his bed.

When he turns back to the doorway, she's still standing there. And there's something different about Mrs. Wallachia.

 _What happened to her eyes?_

He doesn't feel attached to them anymore. It's as if they're dead, devoid of sparkle and attraction. In fact, they're glaring back at him with some level of coldness. And yet, her white smile remains intact, her perfect teeth large and glowing.

Steve shivers. "Where did you find it?"

Before he realizes that it was a bad idea to answer his door, that just finding his shield somewhere was too good to be true, Domini slams the door behind her and pounces on him.

Rogers mumbles in protest, but they are both tumbling back on his bed, and she's kissing him all over his face and neck, removing his jacket. He pushes her away gently, but she throws her arms around him and kisses him harder. Her touch is like ice water on his skin, her lips slimy, breath stale and vaguely metallic, and Steve can feel his stomach churn. Everything inside him is screaming to get away.

"Please, no… This is wrong," he mutters, about to wriggle out of her grasp, when he feels something puncture his injured palm from earlier that day. He cries out and pushes Domini Wallachia away with such force that she lands against the opposite wall, next to his antique television set.

 _She bit me. The woman bit me._ Heart beating faster, Cap looks down at his hand and notices two tiny puncture marks.

 _Well, it wouldn't be the first time today that someone found my hand tasty…_

But it's not until he looks up at the sprawled body facing him, the emerald sequins on her dress twinkling coldly, that he realizes she's _not a woman._

Domini Wallachia beams her brightest, widest smile and displays two elongated canine teeth front and center, each tip dipped with a tiny amount of blood.

 _His_ blood.

"Jarvis," Rogers says, trying to mask the shake in his voice. "There's a vampire in my bedroom. Please inform Mr. Stark… and everyone else in the building."

Domini cackles softly, the wheezy sound of a broken accordion, as she slowly runs her tongue over her pointy teeth.

"Jarvis?!"

The computer program doesn't respond, and Cap knows that the entire system has been compromised behind Stark's back. But did Mrs. Wallachia pull the job all on her own? Of course not. She is married, after all.

 _I should have known._ Memories burst through his skull—dark woods, baying wolves, lightning that crackles against the cold sky of a Transylvanian night. Had Domini been the cause? No, there was only _one_ who impeded the allied forces and the Nazis alike in Eastern Europe with such ferocity that entire battalions were found, sunken pale corpses in mass graves. Blood had been drained from their bodies, two tiny puncture marks on each neck. Steve remembers swaying at the awful sight, vowing to defeat the evil person who could have caused such a thing. He had many names: Voivode of Wallachia, Son of the Dragon, Lord of Darkness, The Impaler, and (of course)—

"Dracula," Rogers hisses. "Where is he, and what does he want?"

His mind whirls. Cap thought Dracula had been defeated in the early 40's. He had been driven back to his castle, weak and without an army to defend him. After aiding the Howling Commandos in destroying Nazi forces in the area, Count Dracula's true nature had been revealed, and the bloodlust ended with Captain America driving a stake through Vlad's heart.

 _Should have used ash instead of aspen._

Domini Wallachia, the bride of Dracula, swings sultry hands to smooth her blonde hair back in place. It's as if her arms are being held up by invisible strings. She lazily gets to her feet, wide-eyed, and hungry.

"Delicious," she croons. "May I have more?"

Steve Rogers grabs his cell phone, milliseconds away from dialing Stark, but Domini puts a palm out, shaking her head.

"You do that, and your girlfriend will die."

Cap stops, muttering darkly, "I don't have a girlfriend."

"You know what I mean!" she hisses. "Natasha Romanoff."

Steve feels his muscles constrict, as if he has been punched sharply in the stomach.

"Jarvis," commands Domini. "Show the Captain his precious Black Widow."

Rogers' greatest fear is revealing itself to him, like a bad dream. The only person he would do anything to protect, without cutting corners, without calling for reinforcements. His bedside monitor flashes and focuses on another bedroom. Steve can feel the anger rising inside him at the image that accosts his mind.

Natasha's in bed, but she's not asleep. She's sitting up, covers folded neatly across her lap in blue and cream ribbons. It would look perfectly normal if it wasn't for the dark figure whispering into her ear, hunched over like a villainous stereotype. Anyone watching the scene might think that the fiend is about to tie the damsel up and place her on the train tracks.

 _No_ , thinks Steve. _It's worse than that._

Although Dracula is obscured, his back to the surveillance camera, Rogers can imagine the teeth beginning to protrude from his pale lips. He is close, _so close_. And Romanoff continues to sit there, her eyes glazed and unseeing, although they are wide open. There is no sound, but Steve thinks he sees her sigh once, a contented moan, before settling back against her propped up pillows. Cap can't recall a more offending, horrifying gesture—Black Widow tilting her head to expose her neck to the vampire's cloying breath.

She does it as if to say _Do it now._

"STOP! STOP IT." Steve whirls around, facing Domini, pleading with his eyes. She merely motions back to the screen, where Vlad Wallachia has backed away from the still spy.

"We want your blood," Domini trills behind him. "We want all of it."

Cap's eyes are fixated on Natasha's image, desperately wanting to go to her, to wake her up from the dreadful spell she was placed under, to comfort her, to dispose of any trace of the demon who had broken through her impressive mental shields. He is not certain of many things in life anymore. The past _was_ his present, and the world has changed. His childhood friends are now only visible as statues. The Avengers would have been his future, but he's finding it harder to trust people these days. Rogers knows only one thing, and it's unspoken, but he loves Romanoff, and he will do anything for her.

"Do it," he says.

The screen flickers off, and Domini disappears like smoke with its image. Steve takes one breath before the temperature dramatically drops. He can almost see his breath in the air, and a shadow enters the room.

His muscles tighten instinctively, but he doesn't move from the bed. Pale moonlight filters through his room, landing softly on the face of a phantom he thought was dead _ years ago.

"Captain America," says the figure delicately, chewing each syllable as if they are rare delicacies.

How had he not recognized him? The dark hair, the handsome face… It all makes sense now.

Vlad Wallachia steps fully into the light, and Steve averts his eyes, not willing to be put under the vampire's spell just yet.

"I thought you were dead," he says, almost a whisper.

A soft chuckle. "No, my dear."

Dracula approaches until he can almost reach out and touch the super soldier. A tall figure, his black cloak stirs expectantly.

Rogers is trying to find some way out. _If only Jarvis wasn't compromised._

"What if I fight you?"

Vlad pauses, and Steve looks up at him, staring at him straight on.

"As much as I would enjoy that, my darling, I'm afraid I only have one intention for visiting you this evening, and you're quite aware what it is."

The bedside monitor flashes on again, and Steve spies Natasha. This time, Domini is hovering over her, like a ravenous demon.

"As you can see, any physical violence will result in my possession of her soul."

Rogers knows that he has lost the battle. His shoulders sink in futility. "Why are you doing this?"

Dracula glides to the window, staring outside as if to contemplate his life rather than explain his motivations. "Your blood is pure and nearly perfect. When I drink it, I will gain your strength and regenerative abilities, making me into a super being that will extend the life of my own powers. Do you see?"

"Yes," says Steve. "You never stopped being greedy."

"Not greedy!" Wallachia intones. "Opportunistic. And patient. I've been waiting for this for years, my pet. This communion is long overdue."

Dracula turns around with a flourish, wrapping his cloak around him. Rogers predicts that if the beast was any happier, he might burst into song. Vlad sits next to him, and Steve scoots over abruptly, cringing when the hem of the demon's cloak brushes his thigh.

"You will have no memory of this," says Vlad. "And there will be three visitations, in order for my system to have time to recover."

Steve moans outwardly, but on the inside he is extremely relieved. Chances are high that the Avengers will be able to defeat Dracula by then if they detect his presence in headquarters.

"Vould you like it if I talked like zees? Vould it be easier for you?"

Cap shakes his head ferociously, refusing to make eye contact with the monster, even as spindly fingers rest on his arm.

The voice that answers him is surprisingly compassionate. "It will be less painful if you look at me, Captain."

Despite his intuition telling him to bolt, run away, and lash out at the Count, Rogers finally gives in and looks directly into the dark being sitting beside him. At first he is uncertain whether he is falling down or floating upwards, but the _ eyes are bright and spinning slightly. He hears words but does not process their meaning as a shimmering warmth covers his entire body. Cap has never been under the influence of drugs, but he can imagine that the effects are similar. He has never felt more content, more warm, more at peace. He is falling deeply into Dracula's eyes, sinking into the embrace of a protecting angel.

It's not until he feels a prick along his neck that the suspended sensations turn into a claustrophobic sinking, similar to drowning. There is a pit of darkness waiting for him while the opaque angel wrapped around his body transforms into a gigantic bat with black wings and blood-red eyes. Someone is screaming, and he plunges into darkness, trying to convince himself that the cry belongs to another man.

* * *

9:36 A.M. Breaking routines.

Steve wakes up screaming.

It's not because he just had the worst nightmare since the ice; it's not because his bedcovers are drenched and sticky with sweat, or the fact that his throat is burning, and his mouth is dry—the stale taste of something recently departed lingering between his teeth.

It's the fact that he's shaking, and he doesn't know why.

He glances at his bedside table and notices the book and half-drunk cup of chamomile tea. For a moment, these artifacts calm Rogers. He remembers reading in bed; he remembers drinking the tea. He must have fallen asleep shortly after…

But it doesn't explain the lingering weakness that he hasn't experienced since pre-serum. And the memories come flooding back. Asthma, the lingering weakness of fever, chronic bronchitis. Staying in bed while other kids his age ran around in the sunshine.

And it doesn't explain why Captain America, the connoisseur of custom, has overslept.

The slow rumble of thunder in the distance carries him slowly back to the present. He gets to his feet, his muscles aching ( _maybe my run yesterday was too strenuous)_ and walks to the window. At first, Steve guesses that Thor is returning from Asgard—thunder being his regular calling card—but when he notices the thick dark clouds stretching for miles and miles, he knows the storm is not a product of the Asgardian's recent return. Rogers watches the sky for a few moments and finds that his eyes are watering. Breathing out a gasp, almost in shock, he rapidly rubs the tears away with his fingers. How could a darkened sky trigger this much emotion? All at once, Steve is drowning in the sensation of complete despair.

Holding onto the windowsill for support, he steadies his breath, focusing on each intake and exhalation, just like how Bruce had taught him to manage small bouts of anxiety. Hey, it isn't a secret that Captain America has PTSD. All of the Avengers have it, to some extent. Except maybe Thor. Steve reckons that they might call it something different in Asgard. Like LIMB (Loki Is My Brother).

Cap forces himself away from the window, walking stiffly and holding one arm at his side with the other. He didn't realize how cold it was in his room.

"Jarvis, can you turn up the temp?" he says out loud, but there is no response.

Rogers pauses, flinching at the silence.

 _It's probably Tony tweaking the system. Don't get so worked up._

Steve sighs and unrolls his yoga mat (blue, with happy little waves on it) to do some push-ups and stretches pre-run. But he's barely through push-up numero ten when his arms begin shaking he slowly lowers himself back down, turning over and collapsing with his back on the mat in a frustrated huff.

Ten is like chewing gum, flexing a muscle, flashing a smile. Ten. _You can't even do ten._

Steve hoists himself up, ignoring the dizziness when he gets to his feet, and he stiffly walks to the bathroom. As he walks barefoot, the lights in his apartment begin to flicker on and off.

At the sink, Cap splashes cold water on his face, freezing when he notices two tiny dots close together on the left hand side of his neck.

 _A kiss—_

A sharp pang of nausea twists inside him at the sight of the marks when—

"Gah!"

He jerks his right hand from the sink as scalding hot water pours out of the faucet. The water was cold two seconds ago.

"Jarvis," he mutters, not really expecting a response. "What's going on?"

He examines his red hand and notices it hasn't fully healed from yesterday's attack. _Odd._ Pained, but otherwise unharmed, Cap turns his attention back to the red dots on his neck. They are strangely familiar, but he can't remember _why._ When he touches them, they begin to weep blood.

Steve fishes for a Band-Aid and covers the mark up, trying to ignore the pale face staring back at him from the bathroom mirror. _Someone definitely doesn't look pretty today._

Despite the setbacks of a particularly weird morning, Rogers sticks to his routines. He finds comfort in making his bed military style, like he does every day. After he tidies his small apartment, he will go for a run. He's already wasted enough of the morning.

Then he finds the blood on his pillow. Steve assumes it's from the marks on his neck, and he hastily removes the pillow cover, tossing it on the floor. Underneath it, however, Cap reveals an even more unusual item.

It's a pair of women's underwear. Black. With lace.

TBC

 **A/N:** Such a fitting chapter for almost-Halloween, don't you think? Thank you all for being patient with me. It's a busy time of year, and I only rarely get the opportunity to write and post. Please let me know what you think about this story, and I'll send you some cyber cupcakes of gratitude!


	5. Sewer Rat Connoisseur

**Rush of Blood**

 **Chapter 5: Sewer Rat Connoisseur**

9:46 A.M. Amnesia.

Steve finds himself glancing between the book and cup of tea and the panties with greater rapidity. For some reason, the three items can't reconcile each other in his mind, and he feels a rare headache coming on.

 _Was I with someone last night?_

The answer is no. Resoundingly, unequivocally, irrevocably, no.

And yet…

Rogers' heart thumps when he thinks of Natasha. _Could it be Natasha and I…_

No. No, even under heavy sedation (which he has yet to encounter with his increased metabolism), he would have remembered _that._

 _Maybe it's all a prank? Maybe Tony left them…_

Steve Rogers physically cringes when he imagines how the conversation might go between him and Stark. _Not likely._

He walks to his half empty cup of cold tea and sniffs it suspiciously. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Rogers takes a cursory glance around the room, but nothing else seems out of the ordinary.

 _Just the women's underwear that I'm currently holding._

Quickly, as if they are some kind of diseased article, he shoves the underwear into the bloodied pillowcase, minutely relieved to be at least spared the sight of them.

He takes a deep breath, and all of the lights wink out in his room.

And that's when Steve Rogers makes the firm decision that he will _not_ go for a run today.

* * *

9:50 A.M. The most important meal.

The Avengers' breakfast nook is quiet for this time of the morning. Although the majority of the team would prefer sleeping in, most have to cram in grueling workout sessions before team meetings and missions take hold of the day. Steve is the rare exception, the one person who doesn't mind getting up early, because it's habit and routine. And routine is one of his only comforts these days.

All that changes when Cap walks into the kitchen, prepared to boil some eggs and butter some toast (comfort food) to suppress the uncertainty inside him, and he sees Tony.

"Stark!"

At first, Rogers is surprised that the billionaire would even get up this early—and then he's impressed that Tony has made the effort to get up at a decent time…and then he realizes that Stark is looking at him with an equally surprised expression on his face.

Cap thinks that this day really can't get any worse.

Tony is slumped at the kitchen table, mug of coffee in hand, and some kind of vegetable smoothie in front of him. His hair is mussed, and he's wearing a maroon bathrobe that has seen better days. Which begs the question: If Tony Stark is rich enough to buy a small country, why can't he get decent post-shower attire?

And then Tony answers the unspoken question for him: "It's… just really comfy."

Rogers clears his throat and averts his eyes.

The billionaire sets his coffee down gently. "You look just like how I feel."

Steve locks his jaw and forces his aching and weak body to move—make some toast, find an apple—anything! And get out quickly, before his day becomes even crummier.

"Tell me," says Iron Man. "Were we at the same party last night? It got kind of fuzzy around 3 A.M."

"No," says Cap, like a robot, fixated on popping the two pieces of wheat bread into the toaster and grabbing a plate. But he feels like screaming.

 _Wait…_

"At least…" He starts and instantly stops. "I guess… I… I don't think so."

Steve pretends to be entirely engrossed in finding a butter knife and refuses to acknowledge the thorough _eyeballing_ Stark is giving him.

 _How did you oversleep?_

It must have been the weather. The sky is so dark that Steve's internal clock was thrown off. That sounds plausible. And also completely ridiculous.

"My alarm didn't go off," Rogers says, because the silence is becoming unbearable. He imagines Tony's gaze boring invisible holes in the back of his head. He keeps pushing down the lever on the toaster, but the bread doesn't descend. Rogers checks that the toaster is plugged in, and it is. The power must be out.

Steve senses someone behind him, and he moves out of the way as quickly as he can (which is actually pathetically slow) to make room for Stark.

The genius billionaire etc. gives him a bemused side-glance then fiddles with the knob on the toaster.

"Right," Stark says as he works, his voice maddeningly level. "So you just slept in an extra _four_ hours or so?"

Cap's mouth is dry, and he doesn't know what to say.

"Must have been up late. Like you."

Steve knows _Tony_ knows this is a lie. Captain America doesn't attend late-night parties on a regular basis. But Cap is also aware that Stark will pry no further. Even the nosiest member of the Avengers respects that Steve's a private person.

His attention is drawn to the billionaire, and Stark makes a "tsk" sound between his teeth.

"I woke up to major problems in the building this morning." Tony goes back to his mug and sniffs it suspiciously. "There's nothing worse than getting handed a cup of cup of chicken noodle soup instead of your regular cup of coffee in the morning. Dummy was definitely living up to its name an hour ago."

Rogers gives up on the toaster and smears smooth peanut butter over the two slices of wheat bread. "Yeah, I noticed I couldn't contact JARVIS about fifteen minutes ago."

Tony rolls his eyes out of frustration. "People have been trying to contact me all morning, but communications are on the fritz, and it turns out everything else as well. So much for electricity in the kitchen and my grand omelet ambitions."

Iron Man shuffles back to the table, sits down, and holds up his glass of green sludge. "Want some?"

Rogers swallows back bile, his stomach churning at the sight. "No thanks."

Stark shrugs then snaps his fingers. "Oh—Banner is looking for you. Something about missing the team meeting at 0900 that you were supposed to lead 'cause you're our fearless leader blah blah blah."

Cap can't even speak or choke out a sound. How could he have forgotten? He has _never_ missed a meeting, save for a few instances of being in the hospital (with life-threatening injuries, no less). He is always extremely punctual and dedicated to moderating their assemblies.

Tony must have read the pain in his face because the older man tries to reassure him. "Oh, c'mon—Don't feel too bad about it. When was the last time I went to one of those meetings? No offense."

Steve sighs. Stark—ever the enigma. Some days he feels like Iron Man is more of the team's mascot than a leader. But Rogers knows that Tony's ambivalence is just for show. Behind those tinted lenses, he's _always_ planning, calculating.

"I guess I better see Bruce."

All thoughts of food are gone from Cap's mind. As he starts to leave, a sharp "Hey!" turns him around.

Tony sits on quietly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Cap tries to respond convincingly, but Stark raises a doubting eyebrow, and the super soldier walks away.

* * *

10:20 A.M. Science experiments.

Steve is beginning to cope with the strange weakness. A small nuisance, its presence is always felt but not debilitating enough to tell anyone about.

 _It'll go away. I'm just having a bad day. Crummy weather, low energy, missing shield. It's a phase._

He finds Banner several floors down in a vast room that holds a multitude of science equipment, a plethora of computer stations, and soundproof walls. It's Bruce's laboratory, and it's also the home of the Hulk tank.

At first, Banner was loathe to have it anywhere in the vicinity of his work space, but as pride in his alter-ego grew, he gained a warmer attitude toward the enormous bell jar. Claustrophobia aside, Banner has even begun to use it for sparring sessions with Thor. The perks of being a giant, green, rage monster.

Bruce is currently mixing various chemicals and potions together in a manner reminiscent of a mad scientist if he wasn't wearing a flannel jacket and jeans and humming with good humor to himself. Steve pauses before entering the lab, stifling a yawn ( _How can I be tired?)_ and quickly shrugs his shoulders back to assume his normal perkiness.

"Ah—Steve!" Bruce calls cheerfully when he notices the other man enter. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"

Rogers has always found it ironic that the angriest man he knows can also be the most upbeat and rational of the entire bunch.

"Sorry, Bruce. I—uh…"

But instead of having to explain his absence at the meeting, Banner shrugs nonchalantly and waves Steve's excuse away before he even says it.

"I know—JARVIS comes down with a virus and we all have a communication breakdown. It's been a massive roadblock to my research. However, that was before I turned my attention to our new friend here."

Steve shivers, as if the temperature has clicked down ten notches on the thermostat just to personally irk him. But it's not the lingering cold that continues to seep into his marrow that gives him pause, or that creates a delightful spinal-tap sensation up and down his back.

It's _him_.

"Renfield," Rogers growls.

The creature stands in a small pool of yellow light in the vast Hulk tank, and he almost reminds Steve for a moment of some desert-dwelling reptile, frozen in his movements from lack of warmth, but whose eyes remain open and flit craftily side to side.

So that you know he's still alive.

A brief cloud of darkness drifts across Steve's vision, and he sways before catching himself on a nearby countertop. Luckily, Bruce is turned the other way, approaching Renfield with a clipboard in hand, or the doctor would have seen.

Rogers shakes his head almost violently. _Not here. Not now. You're not going to let this_ thing _intimidate you._

Glancing at the glass cage, Steve sees that Renfield continues to stand motionlessly, his eyes half-lidded.

"Whipped him up some breakfast earlier," says Banner evenly, flipping through the notes on his clipboard. "He asked for sewer rat. I gave him some oatmeal."

"You heartless monster," says someone softly behind Steve. Cap whirls around to catch sight of Natasha. She's dressed in black yoga pants and a violet thermal hoodie.

 _Must have swung by after her mid-morning workout with Barton._

Barton. Rogers completely forgot about Hawkeye.

"How's Clint?" Bruce asks, true concern showing on his scruffy face.

Steve would love to wear an invisibility cloak right about now. How could he have forgotten to inquire about Barton to Nat the night before?

"Coasting by on tuna sandwiches, flannel slippers, and his favorite episodes of _Dexter_." Nat quirks a smile at Banner's proceeding head-tilt. "He has odd cravings when he feels lousy."

"Not as _odd_ as our _friend_ over here," Bruce says, pushing his glasses up on his nose and peering across the lab at their prisoner. All three of them

The lights flicker.

As if on cue, the man named Renfield begins putting his hands up to the clear walls of the Hulk tank and scrapes them with his fingernails, emitting the _scritch scratch_ sound of a rodent.

"And I thought _Loki_ 's brain was a bag full of cats," mutters Banner, stepping closer to his patient.

Steve can feel Romanoff's eyes on him when he follows Bruce and stands beside him.

"Do you mind if I question him?" Steve asks.

Banner shrugs. "Be my guest."

Rogers would like to be doing a multitude of different things at this moment. He would like a cup of hot cocoa and a bowl of popcorn, to sit on a plush couch and watch _This Gun For Hire._ He would enjoy stretching his limbs and running for miles and miles until he could run no longer and until sweat poured down his face, purifying, releasing. He would prefer using his fists like mallets to pummel alien invaders until his knuckles were ringed with red.

He would prefer almost anything to this.

The prisoner is pallid, the only color in his face coming through in his purple, puffy lips. His bloodshot eyes stare at nothingness, as if in a trance, but when Rogers steps closer, they widen.

 _Scritch scritch scratch scratch_

His frenzied finger nails work over time, running across the clear walls frantically. Rogers can't tell if the man is expressing his eagerness at seeing him or just sharpening his claws.

"Feeling better after breakfast?" asks Bruce evenly, pen hovering over his clipboard.

Renfield smacks his lips. "I feel…. _sanguine_." His red eyes swivel to Steve. "Now that _you're_ here."

"What do we _know_ about this nut?" Rogers asks, keeping his eyes fixed on Renfield, as if daring the other man to look away.

"We ran his name and his prints before JARVIS took a nap," says Natasha. "The man's a ghoul—"

"You can say _that_ again," murmurs Bruce.

"I mean, he's untraceable. We've got nothing on him."

"Whom do you work for?" Rogers asks the man in the cage.

Renfield's voice remains insipid, toneless. "I am my Master's servant."

"And who is your master?" Steve continues.

The creature just smiles crookedly, his eyes glinting. Something about his smile makes Rogers' injured hand tingle, as if it had gone temporarily numb.

"Were the others in the van also working for your Master?" Nat asks, her voice smooth, soft, coercive.

"They _are._ I _am_ ," Renfield says. "We _are_ , _am._ They _are,_ we _are_ , I _am,_ I _am,_ I _am…."_

He continues on repeating the same phrase in a sing-song voice, chanting, like a demented cheerleader. And it's getting on Steve's nerves.

"The man is obviously unstable," Rogers says, prying his eyes from Renfield, scratching absent-mindedly at the wound on his hand.

Bruce is still observing Renfield. "Did you notice the two marks on his neck…"

 _This communion is long overdue._

"No…" Rogers mutters.

"Steve, what's wrong?"

Nat places a hand on his arm, but he doesn't even feel her touch. Instead, he is drawn to Renfield, who gestures for him to come closer.

"Steve…" Banner warns him as he steps closer to the cage, his nose almost touching the glass. On the other side, Renfield's breath fogs up his view.

"It will be less painful if you look at me, Captain."

Rogers winces, re-living some forgotten memory that is so close to his consciousness that he can almost _taste_ it. In one fluid movement, Renfield draws bloody fingers away from his neck and paints two letters in front of Steve's face on the frosted glass.

RM

" _Remember me_ ," Renfield whispers so that only Steve can hear. "I _am._ We _are._ Coming for _you_."

A choked sound escapes Steve's throat as he feels blood slide down the bite marks in his palm. He staggers away from the glass cage as Renfield chuckles behind him. Bruce is there, bracing his arm, and Nat is there too, her eyes brimming with worry. But Rogers just wants them to go away.

"Steve—your hand…"

"Leave it!" Rogers snaps at Banner, not meaning to be so harsh but not really caring. He curls the wounded hand towards his chest protectively, refusing to look back at the tank, and making his way quickly towards the door.

"I'll come with you," Nat says quietly, and Steve's mind is too frenzied to argue. He can't stay here any longer.

Bruce's echoing words swarm around him. "You okay? You seem kinda… off."

"'m fine."

The super soldier turns around without making eye contact at the doctor, clutching his injured hand, weeping blood.

Banner's words stop him again before he's left the laboratory. "You know, everyone's allowed to have an _off_ day. Even Captain America."

Steve pauses, nods, and continues walking. Away from the laboratory, away from the Hulk tank, and away from the _thing_ inside it that will erode his sanity before it drinks from his veins.

TBC

 **A/N:** Anyone still out there? Let me know what you think!


	6. The Flow State

**Rush of Blood**

 **Chapter 6: The Flow State**

10:43 A.M. A cup of tea.

 _As if that's going to help anything._

What with the cold, hungry stare in the man-that-isn't-a-man's eyes burning in Cap's mind.

 _Renfield._

He feels a slight turning sensation, as if he is slowly spinning around even when he's standing perfectly still.

Natasha pushes him gently, yet firmly, onto a stool along the bar in the kitchen and rummages through a cupboard.

"You don't have to—" Rogers begins weakly.

Romanoff silences him with a single _look_ , and Steve is too tired to argue.

 _No. Not just tired. Exhausted._

It's the aching kind of exhaustion that gnaws at your insides, almost feverish.

"So what happened in there?"

 _I am. We are. Coming for you._

Steve snaps back to the Widow.

"Nothing."

"Teenage reticence isn't your style, Steve," the red head smoothly replies. She pours water from the sink into an electric kettle and plugs it into the wall, crossing her fingers before flicking its switch. Luckily, the power seems to be working because the switch glows orange, and the kettle begins to heat.

"I thought you trusted me," Nat says, and, despite being a spy, Rogers detects a tinge of hurt in her tone.

He winces at the counter, elbows crossed. Where to begin? How can he possibly tell her the strange insecurities and horrors racing through his mind?

 _Well, Nat. Thing is, I woke up late, which_ never _happens. I'm tired, and I think the super soldier serum_ might _be wearing off. And I lost my shield. Oh, and I think I'm going insane. But it's really nothing…_

"I _do_ trust you," Steve says, trying to sound sincere. "I trust you with my life."

"Just not your feelings," she shoots back.

Rogers bites his lip and can't think of anything to say.

The lights flicker overhead just as Nat unplugs the kettle and pours its contents into two matching black mugs that broadcast the label "Stark Industries." Romanoff sets a steaming cup in front of him, and Steve is grateful for its warmth because, for some reason, he can't stop shaking.

Cap thinks she's going to keep pestering him, but as their tea cools, Nat graciously switches conversation to other, more pleasant, topics: What Clint said when he woke up—"Who do I gotta kill _now_?"—to Bruce's somewhat obsessive compulsive breakfast routines.

Despite feeling lousy, Rogers finds himself being drawn into her conversation. As their tea cools, and he sips the warm peppermint thoughtfully, he even smiles once or twice. Sometimes he forgets what it's like to get lost in Natasha Romanoff's eyes, what with all the crime-fighting and saving-the-planet all the time. In moments like these, he's glad to be reminded of them.

"So before you go," she says abruptly. "Tell me what's going on with your hand."

And, just like that, Nat pulls his palm away from where he was part hiding, part nursing it, and examines the bandage. To Steve's immediate embarrassment, blood has already begun to seep through the bandage he slapped on earlier that morning.

"This is where Renfield bit you yesterday, right?" she whispers. Her tone is no-nonsense now. "Steve, why hasn't this healed?"

He cringes and takes his hand back, wanting to give a reasonable explanation but not finding one.

After a beat, Romanoff leans forward. "You have to show this to Banner."

" _There_ you are!"

Rogers lurches around to face the newcomer to the kitchen. His heart automatically sinks when he recognizes the voice before he sees her—Domini Wallachia. In the flesh.

And there is quite a lot of it.

She's spilling out of a little black dress that screams _midnight_ when it's barely lunchtime. Silver heels click on the grey linoleum. Blonde hair bounces on her shoulders, curled ringlets like mini snakes. Her sapphire eyes sparkle with mirth, and the edges of her lips tease upwards as if she knows a secret that Steve can't remember.

"I knocked on your door, but you didn't answer," Domini says and flashes a smile, as if this statement is hilarious by itself. Then she pouts. "Are you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Yes—umm—sorry!" Steve stammers. "Natasha Romanoff, this is Domini Wallachia. She just started working for Tony yesterday in…"

"Research," Natasha flatly finishes for him.

"Right! Yeah—research." Rogers can't remember if he knew Domini's field or not, but it makes sense that Nat already knows. She isn't a super spy for nothing.

"How do you do?" Natasha's voice is ice as she juts a hand out to the other woman.

"Pleasure," Domini says, the word dripping with fake cheerfulness.

"So," Steve says, and the single syllable seems to linger for an entire sentence's length. "Would you like some breakfast, Domini?"

She titters, a raspy high-pitched laugh. "Oh, I don't eat breakfast..."

Cap thinks he catches Nat roll her eyes.

"…I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful time last night."

Black Widow sets her mug of tea down with a forceful _clunk,_ and Steve can feel his face burning warmer and warmer as he realizes to whom the lingerie in his room belongs.

The lights flicker on and off in the kitchen.

Romanoff gets to her feet in a cat-like motion and sets her mug in the sink, rinsing it out. "Gonna get Barton," she says quietly.

Cap doesn't exactly trust his brain at the moment to form intelligent words. "Okay. Mission?"

"We've got traces of the cloaked ship. We need to investigate them."

"Right. Sure." _Geez, you sound like a little kid._ "Just keep me updated."

Natasha nods at him but won't make eye contact, and Steve feels a small trickle of blood run down his injured hand through the bandage. For a moment, his heart stops.

Romanoff pauses before she leaves and turns to Domini. "Nice to meet you," she says with a smile that reads "sincere," but Steve knows better. "Say hello to your husband for me."

"I shall," Domini says and beams, but the spy is already gone.

Rogers tries to sip his tea, but the peppermint has gone cold, reflecting the chill of the kitchen. _Apparently, the heat is off as well._

He shivers and almost forgets that Mrs. Wallachia is there until she exclaims, "What happened to your hand?!"

Steve Rogers is too mortified over the events of the past five minutes that he can't begin to think clearly. The old Captain America would have pushed Domini Wallachia against the counter and demanded to know the specific details of what occurred the previous night. The old Captain America would have not have slept through a vital meeting. The old Captain America would not have lost his shield and be cradling a hand that refuses to stop bleeding.

Suddenly, like glass shattering over head, Steve Rogers knows he has changed.

"Excuse me," he mumbles, and dashes out of the kitchen before Domini Wallachia can tempt him back with her sultry smile and blue eyes.

* * *

11:17 A.M. Art escape.

Whenever Steve felt like a piece of him was going to shrivel up from the many chronic illnesses he suffered through as a child, he turned to his sketchbooks and got lost in the drawings. Pencil shavings blown aside like blowing out birthday candles, the crush of black charcoal under fingernails, the scent of blank paper like clean linen. Sketchbooks opened as a butterfly's wings, catching the light and revealing images of still life seen through Steve Rogers' window as a child.

 _A girl holding an ice cream cone. A boy selling a newspaper. A shiny new Cadillac V-16 puttering down the street. Pigeons pecking at crumbs._

All the life he could never experience captured forever…

Rogers goes to his room on autopilot. He nearly scalds his injured hand in the bathroom sink before the temperature adjusts back to normal, and then he applies a fresh bandage to the wound before pulling a drawing pad from the drawer in his bedside table and a freshly sharpened pencil.

Thankfully, he doesn't run into anyone on his way to and from his room, and the elevator miraculously hums along as he pushes the button marked R and ascends to the roof of the Avengers Tower.

The sky continues to darken above him, and Cap is afraid the chance of rain will cancel this rare artistic escape, but the rain doesn't come. Steve scopes out his field of vision for the best lighting and picks a spot on the edge of the western roof where a beam of sunlight peeks through the clouds and, stubbornly, does not fade away.

He sinks to the concrete and sits on the edge, allowing his feet to dangle. Heights have never bothered him, and, aside from the cloud cover, the wind is the only annoying variable to this situation. Rogers zips his brown leather jacket up against the chill and opens his sketchbook. Pages flutter briefly before him—a detailed drawing of a rose he found in Central Park, another of his shield (Steve winces at the thought), another of Mjolnir, propped against a coffee table, and a flash of eyes in close-up.

Natasha's face, smiling brightly. Drawn from memory.

Steve turns the page to an empty sheet of paper and begins to draw. He doesn't know what the slightly oval shape will turn out to be at first. _Perhaps a still life of an eggplant?_ Rogers thinks with a half-smile. Or an avocado, or a pocket watch, or a—

 _Sewer rat._

Captain America spasms and jerks upright. Renfield's voice echoes in his mind and refuses to leave. To drown it out, Rogers hums under his breath and begins to sketch furiously, unrelenting. All other thoughts fall from his mind to the streets of New York below, shattering on the pavement. Steve sketches so he can become himself again, and, at the same time, run as far away from himself as possible.

Steve draws until his fingers are black with charcoal, until his sketches become an ever-widening expanse of graphite, a pool of ink. He continues compulsively, unaware of anything except the need to expunge, to expel this darkness that has seeped into his heart, covering it like the clouds cover the sky above him, shadows.

It is a poison.

As Rogers draws, memories begin to flash in his subconscious, buried deep and still not resurfacing; they are more feelings than pictures.

The slick of black blood—his blood—running down his neck.

A spider crawling through the soft hairs of his forearm.

A chill that hits him like the first cold front of November, taking his breath away.

The distant screech of some nocturnal creature, louder than an alarm clock. Its volume pierces, reverberating in his chest.

Steve finds himself slipping further and further under the oil slick beneath him until he is drowning, gasping, awaiting the words…

 _Drink what is mine…_

"Friend Rogers!"

Captain America startles so badly that he gives himself whiplash, and he groans with the burning pain in his neck, waiting for it to subside. Before him stands the god of thunder, blonde hair streaming down his face, red cape fluttering in the breeze, and Mjolnir in hand, like a figure out of a Titian painting.

"Thor," he croaks. "S-sorry…"

When the Asgardian doesn't answer, Steve looks up to find Thor staring at him with an odd expression on his face, a mixture of concern and confusion.

"We missed you at evening meal time, and so I decided to locate you."

Rogers forces a chuckle. "Nice try, Thor. Why is it that everyone panics when I'm gone for an hour?"

Thor isn't laughing. "It is just past six o'clock in the evening." He raises a hand to indicate their outdoor surroundings.

As if on cue, lightning flashes, and thunder rumbles in the distance. For the first time, Steve realizes just how dark it is outside, with a sliver of the dying sun cracking through the clouds in burnt orange.

 _Six o'clock…_

He looks down at the pavement around him, scattered with multitudes of sketches, pages beginning to flutter away in the breeze as it picks up,

Thor bends down. "Allow me to—"

"No, I got it," Steve says hastily and gathers up all the drawings in a haphazard armful, shoving them into his sketchbook and shutting it with a _snap_. He preoccupies himself to stop the panic from curling around his spine again.

 _I lost time. Again. I lost time_ again. _How many hours have I been up here?_

When Rogers steals a glance at Thor, he can tell the god of thunder is thinking the same thing.

He is about to speak when a sizzle of lightning slices across the sky followed by a rumble of not-so-distant thunder. Steve shivers and jerks an unsteady thumb at the sky.

"This your doing?" he says in a tone that's meant to be joking but comes across as exhausted.

Thor breaks into a smile. "For once, it's not me."

Maybe it's the fact that Steve is shivering again, but the Asgardian says, "Would you like to come inside? You look unwell. Your hand…"

Rogers stops himself from rolling his eyes with disgust. _What_ is _it with everyone being obsessed about my hand?_ He's about to answer with a semi-annoyed quip when he catches sight of his hand and cringes. Black charcoal stains cover the dirty bandage, mixing with dark red stains of blood that have seeped through and continue to soak it.

Cap hides it self-consciously with his other hand and stutters through an excuse. "N-no, I'm…I'm fine, Thor. Just needed some time to… to clear my head. You know?" He looks up hopefully, panicking, worried that the Asgardian will look into his eyes and see the fear in them.

Thor pauses and, luckily, laughs heartily, clapping Rogers on the back. "I know just what you mean. I too have been deep in thought recently."

Steve's tired brain manages to remember their conversation from the previous evening. "You getting cold feet about popping the question to Jane?"

Thor looks perplexed, perhaps unfamiliar with the metaphor Cap mentioned, so Rogers clarifies. "I don't see you wearing the Midgardian clothes you picked out. You got second thoughts about marriage?"

The god of thunder relaxes and beams broadly again. "On the contrary, my friend. The reason I am wearing my traditional clothing is because I have just come from Asgard. "

Steve's eyebrows shoot up, impressed. Both men move to the edge of the tower and sit down side-by-side, feet dangling into the emptiness below.

"What happened? Was there an emergency I didn't know about?"

"No emergency. My quest there was a joyous one. I asked my mother for something I could take back here, something very precious. She gave it to me with her blessing."

Thor fishes around in one of his pockets and places it in Rogers' hands. When Steve opens them, he stares down at a near-perfect circle. Holding it closer, he can just make out the intricate weaving of two silver bands together, meeting together to wrap around a violet-colored crystal. The gem is so bright that it seems to emit a light of its own, separate from the fading embers of the sun.

"It's…gorgeous," Steve says and manages a smile. "This is Frigga's?"

"It was passed down to her by her mother, and her mother before her. And soon it will belong to Jane, if she will have me."

Rogers punches the Asgardian on the shoulder playfully. "She will."

Steve brings the ring closer to his face to examine it more carefully. Inside the band are a string of runes—Cap assumes they are Norse—and he is about to get a better look at the detail of the bands when something beneath him catches his attention.

There is a too-sweet taste in the back of his throat as he gazes at someone—some _thing_ —that is crawling on the outside of the Avengers Tower. Its movements are inhuman, more jagged, with limbs crossing over limbs, joints sticking out at odd angles. It scuttles sideways like an insect and then begins to climb faster, directly beneath them. Steve suppresses a scream in his throat. It's coming for him. _It's coming for him._

 _Drink what is mine…_

The ring falls from his fingers soundlessly, like a crystal glass falling off a countertop in slow motion. Rogers' mouth opens in horror as he sees the violet gem blink and fade into darkness. He lunges after it and subsequently loses his seat on the edge of the tower. Within an instant, Steve is _watching_ the ring fall and is falling himself. Slowly, he tumbles downwards toward the darkness. Toward the monster.

"CAPTAIN!"

His body wrenches backwards suddenly, and he feels a strong grip on his arm. The god of thunder pulls him back onto the rooftop without any effort at all. Rogers remains on his knees, shaking from head to toe.

"Are you all right?" Thor's voice is mixed with worry and uncertainty. He hesitates before speaking again, perhaps consciously keeping his tone even. "The ring…"

Steve's hand, still shaking, reaches out and opens up to reveal Frigga's ring. It is dirtied with charcoal and sweat, but it's intact. Thor takes it reverently from Rogers' grasp before kneeling beside Captain America.

"What happened, my friend?" Thor's voice drops lower, gentler. "You look as if you've seen a—"

"There was something on the side of the tower!" Steve says hastily. His eyes water with the shock of what happened, but he scrambles to his feet, swaying over the edge again just to catch a glimpse of what it was. "Did you see it?!"

Lightning flashes across the sky and thunder rumbles again as Steve peers down at the dizzying sights of the city below, but there is nothing. No monster. The realization that it was all in his mind hits him like a hammer.

Thor catches his arm, trying to ease him back, but Rogers shrugs him off. Breath catches in his chest, and he can feel his cheeks burning.

 _You're losing control again, Rogers. Not now. Not like this. Not in front of Thor. Not in front of anyone._

Thunder _booms_ around them as thick droplets of rain begin to splash against Rogers' face, blurring his vision.

"I… I'm sorry," he stammers, and then he runs before Thor can say anything or reach out to him. He runs away from the rooftop and the monster and the god and his ring. Steve runs to the safety of the tower and the artificial lights.

Thor is left behind in the pelting rain and flashbulb lightning, his hands at his sides, and Steve Rogers' sketchbook at his feet.

TBC

 **A/N:** Heeeeyyyy there! Anyone still with me? I realize it's been a _ridiculously_ long time since I updated, so thanks for sticking with me and this little fic! Let me know what you think, and I'll send you some virtual cream puffs of gratitude.

~Ista ^_^


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